I find it rather interesting that the 2000 Freedom for Information Act, the paper that (and I quote) ‘allows the right of public access held by public authorities,’ has been disregarded as one would a lice-addled Jehovah’s Witness masturbating on ones doorstep. Moreover, this blatant denial of access to publicly entitled information by those democratically elected into power, seems to have caused as much of a fuss as a small child dropping a half eaten ice cream onto a sandcastle.

In the House of Commons yesterday the perpetually ‘flued up Jack Straw, the man that makes you physically wince when you see him on the news representing this fair isle meeting foreign dignitaries, casually informed his colleagues and opposition that the minutes of the meeting leading up to the wholly illegal invasion of Iraq –resulting in the deaths of thousands of innocent men, women and children to the present- were not going to be made public. One lone Labour backbencher said the situation was ‘regretful,’ being the bunch of corrupt cunts they are the Tories had no problem with this at all and the Lim Dems unenthusiastically murmured something about the suppression of said documents was to ‘avoid embarrassment.’ And that was it.

The minutes in question took place on the eve of the invasion. Prior to the meeting Lord Goldsmith had declared any invasion ‘illegal,’ after the meeting he declared that it was ‘legal’. Bear in mind no weapons of mass destruction were ever found and that thousands of innocent men, women and children lie dead, and that the middle east has been permanently destabilised -the legacy of which is only beginning to bear its revolting fruit- I’m rather keen to see the contents of the minutes…

But no one else seems to give a fucking shit, even the news agencies mentioned it as an afterthought, it’s not even headline news this morning. I seem to recall a bit of a to-do at the time, especially when nope-no-weapons-Dr. David Kelly ‘died’ (not to mention the resignation and then passing of Robin Cook, the fiercest opponent of the invasion) and the subsequent comic book that was the Hutton Report when the nation realised he’d been bumped off. Back then the public literally took to the streets.

It’s all a bit quiet now. Has everyone forgotten? Or do we just not care anymore? The conspirators of the invasion (the public face of at least) that animal Bush and the perpetually slimy (and now very wealthy) Mr. Blair are long gone doing the after dinner / preaching thing. So why did not one single member of parliament stand up and question this flagrant disregard of the cunting law? Yes, I know of the caveats that suppressed the minutes but I refute their legal employment, a pointless activity clearly.

So what did the minutes say? I’m 99.9% sure it mentions oil, because we all know the whole Iraq thing was about oil. I, you, have a right to hear them say it because this Iraq business has affected all of our liberties, our human rights. On a final note, and I’m not a conspiracy theory type, I’m now genuinely having doubts about what we were led to have occurred on September the 11th

It’s fun in here today isn’t it, on a lighter note my back is fucked and my granddad is gravely ill. I mention the latter to account for the inevitable blackout on this page when his time comes.

Things seem to have settled in the basement but I’m still not right, I’m sure the beers with Frank last night did a great deal to help mind. And last nights tea was veggie based, I even avoided diary as I’d no intention of over egging the existing pudding as it were.

It’s gone all dead in the office which is hardly surprising under the current circumstances, but a part of me can’t help feeling that this credit recession business is being perpetuated by those that can, not doing. Take the F1 sponsorship situation, it’s not like these sponsors can’t afford to spends millions to represent their business on Lewis Hamilton’s eyelash, it’s just they don’t want to be seen frittering cash away when we’re all supposed to be in the grip of economic crisis. Then take the issue of Bankers getting obscene bonuses whilst workers are laid off in their droves, after all the prevarication and ‘ooh, it’s a disgrace’ the cunts are still getting them.

I’ve not noticed any thing different in the property market either. Houses/flats etc still seem to cost as much as they did a couple of years ago, the only difference is that a potential buyer feels justified in offering the vendor a family sized tin of Miniature Heroes instead of the 200k + asking price. To add insult to injury the potential buyer is probably a banker or some sort of investor, all the recently sold properties round my way are spiked with scaffold and shouting men in baggy jogging trousers and baseball hats.

Christ, it’s not even 10.30 and it feels like I’ve been here since Christmas, I swear to my maker (that’ll be mum and dad, then) that if it wasn’t for this facility to be able to roar (however quietly) on this ‘ere balls I’d have been on the fucking news years ago.
‘Man Chews off Own Face in Co-Op,’ that would’ve be I, Piqued.

Since Saturday night I’ve not been right ‘downstairs.’ Not ‘downstairs’ front, no, round the back. Put it this way, my stools are loose to the point of petrol; my stomach feels like the Okefenokee Swamp made of knives, though I’m not feeling ill per se, which suggests this is something I ate.

On Friday I met IC in a bar at 7.15 in Shoreditch, recently opened I was a little apprehensive that it would be heaving with twats; on the contrary the place was virtually empty. If it wasn’t for IC and I, a few members of staff (twats they were) it would’ve been shut and it was perfectly clear why. The Art Nouveauesque décor had something of a1930’s cruise ship thing going on, the faux opulence made it feel cheap and the funky/soul/jazz music was both awful and baffling causing all these shit elements to collide shitly. In short, it didn’t work. It was wrong and tasteless, so we left.

We then went to dinner, a vegetarian restaurant in a sort of oriental fusion style. The wine was pricey but the food excellent. Doubtless you’re now expecting me to report of stomach issues. On the contrary the food slipped out the following morning like whisper-propelled chipolatas. I felt fine.

Saturday was the first fine day of the year. It was warm enough to wear a t-shirt in places and the sun was shining like Jack Torrance. IC and I walked up the Regent Canal from a packed Broadway market from where we had purchased a tiny over-priced ‘olive and feta’ tart (it turned out to be tasteless fucking quiche) and some German bread. An hour later as we arrived at Angel I was still bloody fine gutwise, so was IC, so it wasn’t that either.

London felt properly spring-like, winter seemed to have passed and the prospect of more light and warmth took its toll, the mood of the city responded and a sort of calmness prevailed. We shot back an Espresso at a bar and took a bus to Clerkenwell where a hair appointment had been arranged for me. IC’s flatmate Mary is a hairdressing savant and she shorn me of my locks to my exacting specs, I entered looking like I’d recently come out of psychiatric care and left like one of Depeche Mode.

Back at IC’s gaff via Tesco it was all hands to the pump. Mary was cooking dinner for 8 so I sat around on my soon to be exploding arse as activity took place around me. The guests arrived and the boozing began in earnest, then the food arrived. In addition to her skills as a hairdresser Mary is a brilliant cook. The first course of quail on a glazed pear, walnut and stilton salad is the sort of stuff one expects at fine eateries and it was superb. This was followed by mussels on a rich fish Bouibaise, tasty and clever, with a goat’s cheese chessecake for pudding topped with a sweet berry sauce. Half way through this course my stomach turned as tight as a timpani drum and I conceded defeat to the point that further drinking required effort. Despite this me, IC and a couple of guests stayed up until 4am having rather meaningful conversations about family punctuated by bouts of (careful) hysterics.

I got up at Sunday lunchtime my stomach singing like Lee Marvin after a dozen bucket bongs. IC was feeling the same. Quite honestly we concluded that we’d simply eaten too much the previous evening, I maintain this theory is correct though I feel the symptoms were perpetuated by an over indulgence of sugar. Whilst exceptional the pudding course was sweeter than Hannah Montana dipped in Tupelo honey and beaten to death (whilst the beating to death doesn’t make it sweeter it would make me feel a whole lot better) and the dressing on the starter salad would’ve given Tate and Lyle diabetes.

After things had ‘settled’ (I’d switched the Gaggia off) we took public transport back to Tooting. It took fucking hours, the Northern Line was up the spout and it was getting dusk before we even climbed on board the Black Bitch and headed out to visit my folks. We raced there, had tea and one of mums severe rock cake, was given some bad news about my Granddad before shooting back.

The weekend passed away with a tentative salmon and haddock tart and TV. A proportion of the evening took place barking on the toilet, which is precisely where I’m off to now.

It’s been over a year since I sat down with Ted for a good chinwag, in addition to eating fine food we excelled ourselves with fine, and not so fine, wine, hence the lateness and sloppiness of today’s post.

In my dream last night I noticed a young man coming towards me on the street dragging something behind him. As we got closer it looked suspiciously as if the object in question was my green canvas motorcycle cover. As we passed I stopped the little oik and made some polite but firm enquires as to the whys and wherefores of his accessory, after an examination there was no question that it was indeed my bike cover so I asked for it back…. from here on in my entire night was based on me demanding he hand over my cover and the kid in question refusing, though at some point he suggested we ‘go halves’ on the fictitious amount he reckon he’d paid for it.

It’s a bit much when your own mind takes it on itself to wind you up when it’s supposed to be resting. At least when your sleeping imaginings conspire against you to construct awful monstrosities that result in your clinging to the side of the bed in a sweaty panic, gasping, you’re so happy to be awake -away from the terrors that lurk within your brains- the woken life no longer seems so bad. Indeed, it’s almost preferable. Having a 7-hour argument with a 15-year-old boy who you’re not allowed to hit doesn’t instil this sort of joie de vivre. I’m bloody exhausted today dear reader, I feel like a gang-banged mimsy.

I had a very low key evening following a day only worth mentioning because of lunch, an above average pizza (Pollo) and letting my portly client leave with cocoa dust from the hazelnut liqueur truffle all over her philtrum and nose. In the evening I avoided the Brits –simply awful- and watched the re-make of Night of The Living dead in the kitchen sipping wine.

When I came into work this morning I couldn’t avoid the news that Duffy had won some stuff. Whilst she sounds like Lulu (a creature I despise without condition) she is further disadvantaged by looking like an amphibian. Stick her in a green waist coat and plonk her in a Type 13 Bugatti and you’d swear Toad from Toad Hall had leapt off the page.

Here is a Brits cure… Rare early footage and a conclusion to the short BS season, take it at once.

There is a killer on the loose in South London; an escaped mental patient responsible for battering to death a fellow in Battersea last year is on the run, in my manor.

I don’t see this turn of events as remotely unfortunate; indeed, this is an opportunity I intend to take full advantage of. A trail of Superkings, plastic cups of Typhoo and dubious pornography would draw the attention of even a moderate fruitcake but to a fucking raspberry on the run, this will be like every institutionalised Christmas ever since he was taken into care after fucking the neighbours cat in the eye.

The trail will end at my front door, or rather the communal front door where I’ll be waiting. I shall let the unhinged psycho into the communal hallway where he’ll find Cunts front door bedecked in choice quotes from Revelations and ‘knock for free ice cream’ written in poo. My only option is whether to watch events unfold live or leave them to it only to return a few minutes later to find my moonstruck captive wearing Cunts intestines as a turban before calling the necessary services, police, ambulance and the pizza guy to order a Quattro Stagioni and a litre of coke to mix with the Bourbon I bought in anticipation of celebration.

I had a jolly night, met up with Harry and Frank in a boozer in Clapham before returning home to make pasta, which I consumed in front of a rather interesting programme about Harold Pinter.

Awful in here today, I feel the worse for wear and totally forgot I had a lunch meeting with the boss and a client. This explains why I left my scrubbed up self at home opting instead to come in this morning looking like I’ve been begging at Old Street tube station.